Sunrise
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: The thing nobody tells you about having an A.I. destabilizing in your brain is that it's not all bad. Carolina, Epsilon, and their half-remembered dreams. Spoilers for 12x11.


"Look," Epsilon says.

In her dreams, his hand is always outstretched, and in her dreams, she always takes it. The touch is electric-cool, sparking through her hardsuit, and when she wakes up her breath always tastes cold in her mouth. But her heart is racing, and the old aches have evaporated from her shoulders, from the sunburst scarring at the back of her neck.

"Mornin'," Epsilon says. He always says it like that, casual and relaxed, and the way he says it, she half-expects him to have a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for her. He catches the tail end of her thought (she nudges him gently away from the deeper neural link) and nods toward their stockpile of MREs. "Knock yourself out. I'm a lousy cook, anyways."

She drags off her helmet, fluffs up her raggedly cut hair, then changes her mind and combs it back with her fingers in a valiant attempt to stave off even worse helmet hair. The MRE is stale and, well, it certainly qualifies as stick-to-your-ribs food, in the sense that its mass probably doesn't work its way through your system until about half-past the eventual heat death of the universe. It tastes bad, though, actively offensive, which is worlds better than the bland-sawdust taste everything's had for so long.

She draws up her knees to her chest, rests her forearms against them, and grins at Epsilon, who's broadcasting disdain with an undercurrent of mild nausea. "Don't miss the food, huh?"

He snorts. "Hey, if we had a steak dinner here I'd actually give a shit about not having a body. Given the options, I think I'm good."

She flicks a pea at him. It passes through and rolls off into the grass. "Oh," he says. "Real mature."

She laughs. Sometimes it worries her, the smiling, the laughing. In a superstitious, well-now-something's-gonna-go-wrong sort of way, sure, but also in the sense that she's not entirely sure she remembers how to be happy. Like she's managed to find the one way to do _happy_ wrong.

"Overachiever," Epsilon says. "You always gotta be the best at everything. Including angst."

"Hey, I'm out of practice, okay? And what did we say about the depth of that neural link?" She keeps her voice mild, but he flickers slightly, acknowledging the rebuke. He's bored, she knows. _Lonely_, she thinks, and doesn't want to think about that too long. She thinks maybe he catches that thought, too.

"We got somewhere to be," he says, instead of the million other things that she knows are on his mind. "Intercepted a transmission while you were out."

"Okay," she says. "Show me."

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

She's dreaming again, but even in her dreams she knows he's unstable. She wonders if she might be unstable in the same way, a flimsy façade erected over the crumbling ruins. She wonders if that's why they work so well together.

He holds out his hand. She rejects the thought. She takes his flickering hand in hers.

* * *

"I think I'm getting better at this," Epsilon says.

Carolina stares out at the room full of unconscious soldiers, plays back her memory of the fight, the times she'd relied on the little indicators on her HUD in place of her own instincts. In concert with her own instincts. "Yeah," she says. "I think you're getting good."

"I'm basically the greatest."

She rolls her eyes. Kinda wishes she could elbow him in the ribs for that one. Wonders how long it's been since she touched someone like that. "Now who's the overachiever?"

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

He doesn't wait for her, this time. He grabs her hand and the shock of it screams up her arm, slams into her shoulders like a cliff face, tears into the back of her head with a shredding ferocity.

She's on the ground, panting, blood in the snow around her. Her helmet's gone. The air's cold in her mouth, puffing out in clouds of mist. Epsilon's standing in front of her. Epsilon's got a pistol pressed under his own chin.

"No," she says, too slow. Dreamlike. "Wait."

She jolts awake to the sound of a gunshot, thrashes and drives the heels of her feet into the dirt, reaching for the outstretched hand, reaching—

"Jesus," Epsilon says. "Your vitals are all fucked up, Sis. Calm down. You're okay."

It's the first time he's called her that, but there's no timidity, no uncertainty in the nickname. She wonders how long he's been thinking of her that way. She thinks, again, that he must be lonely.

"We're okay," she says, still breathing hard, and drags herself to her feet, "we're okay."

"Okay," he says. He brightens. "Wanna try to beat your record for the morning run?"

She smiles, and it feels real. It feels _real_. "Yeah. I'd like that."

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

His voice is flat, emotionless. She dreams about reaching, too slow, for a hand that's moving impossibly fast. A faint, flickering smile.

"Knock-knock, Carolina," says Epsilon.

She wakes up.

He's mostly disengaged from her nervous system and doesn't notice her return to consciousness; it's been a mutual decision, to keep him out for a while unless they're in a combat situation. They both think that maybe the distance will be easier. Neither of them's thinking too hard about what's happening to him, neither of them's saying the word, but they know the risks. They know.

She's awake in the darkness under the stars, and she's worrying about her friends, but she's got a plan. A good plan. It's solid, and she has absolute faith in herself. She rolls onto her other side, jams a fist under her chin to keep from curling in on herself and getting a kink in her neck, and waits to sleep again.

She thinks she hears familiar voices echo. She sinks back into sleep.

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

His voice is a child's voice, and he shyly takes her hand and points up at the night sky, showing her the stars and asking her to tell him stories about the constellations. She makes something up, feeling uncertain, awkward. She's never been much good with kids.

He loves it, contradictory details and all. He beams up at her. "Thank you," he says.

She wakes up smiling. Epsilon senses it, drifts closer, a beacon in the darkness. "Hey, you," he says. "No nightmares tonight?"

"Just the ongoing joy of your company," she says. She marvels, a little, at the way her voice sounds when she's happy. Tries not to second-guess it.

"Ha," he says, deadpan, then sits crosslegged in the air. "Have I mentioned lately how honored I am to be traveling with such a witty person? Like, your jokes aren't at _all_ stale and never fail to amuse."

"Ah, you've told me many times," she says. Rolls easily to her feet. "But I still like to hear it."

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

She doesn't. Logically, she knows, this is something she hasn't had the luxury of dealing with yet, not really. Tripwires she's laid out in the vain hopes that she'll remember all the right ways to stumble through the minefield.

"There are more memories," he says, gently. "When you're ready."

She slams her eyes shut against a green glow. Waits to drift into a new dream. Waits a long, long time.

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

She hates. She _hates_. A succession of faces, a succession of grievances, but most of all the unfairness. The rage that comes with never knowing, with having to look herself in the eye and smile and never quite believe it. The rage that comes with no endgame, no happily-ever-after, just the endless fucking uncertainty and the people who put her there.

He extends her hand. She thinks it might be a fist.

By the time Epsilon notices she's awake, she's on her fiftieth push-up, feeling the burn in her still-healing arm. "Mornin'," he tries, and her responding smile is fixed, rigid.

* * *

"Look," Epsilon snarls, and his hand fastens around her throat like a vice, drags her off her feet, and she chokes on the blood in her mouth, whispers, "_Maine_."

He hurts her. Drags tendrils of clinging, screaming pain out through the implants at the back of her neck. It _hurts_. She screams herself hoarse, trying to make a sound. Nobody left to hear.

His helmet tilts to one side. He looks at her, and she sees flames in her own reflection, dancing across his helmet. He has Eta and Iota in one hand, her in the other. What's left of them, two shattered halves of the whole.

A lot of things happen in that moment, a lot of realizations it takes a very long time to piece through. But this is a dream, and in her dream Carolina knows everything. "Maine, don't, please, don't let him make you—"

She falls. She falls for a very, very long time. She breathes shallowly through her mouth and tries not to think about the rocks at the bottom.

She wakes up, rolls her shoulders. When she smiles, it's tempered with something harder.

_This is real_, she thinks, and goes to war.

* * *

A bullet gets through her guard. It punches into her shoulder, tears through muscle and bone, but it doesn't bring her down until the enemy soldiers are on the floor.

Epsilon apologizes with a crack in his voice.

She pretends not to notice the splinter. She says, "Hey, relax, Epsilon," and her voice is strange and dreamy as the healing unit does its work. Her head lolls back against the wall, and she breathes for a while through her mouth. "Trust me, I've had worse."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "Shit. I fucked up."

"You didn't, though," she says. "You got it right. You just... you just made the best call with the information you had on hand. Not your fault."

He flickers. Solidifies. "Nah," he says. "You were probably too slow."

She smiles. "Hey, I can only work with what I've got. And what I've got is a shitty set of calculations, so, y'know."

"Not sure how I managed to forget what a cocky little shit you are," he says, with the little quaver in his voice that means he thinks he might be taking things too far.

She salutes him, lazily. "Learned from the best."

* * *

"Look," Epsilon says.

Warm familiarity. Soothing balm to the ragged chasms in her mind. Gentle song. A feeling of _wholeness_. Of wounds healing, bones knitting. Of cities springing up from the dirt, intricate, fragile.

"Oh," she says. It's the first time she's really figured out what's happening, and she's done it in a dream she'll only half-remember come morning. "You were mine, once."

The twins fade, flicker. She used them. They used her, maybe. They don't express regret the way she does, but they do _want_. They want the way things were, the way they could've been. "I could've protected you," she says. She's not entirely sure it's them she's talking to.

"It's okay," someone says. Black armor. Fist to the face. They used her, maybe. "It's okay, kid. I got you."

Waking up hurts. For the first time, her cheeks are wet.

* * *

Epsilon sits with her to watch the sun rise, hovering unconsciously over the new scar in her shoulder. They argue about what causes the bright pink glow of the clouds at the horizon. They argue about whether Epsilon remembers enough science to call himself Special Agent Epsilon, PhD. (Carolina argues that there is not, in fact, sufficient science in the galaxy to warrant that title.)

"This is nice," Epsilon says. A little uncertain. A little unstable. "Look."

Carolina leans back, digging her bare hands into the grass like they're taking root. The sun bursts over the horizon.

"Mornin', Epsilon," she says, and smiles.


End file.
